Biggles: the Missing Years (1918–1932)
by Sainted Aunt
Summary: W. E. Johns tells us nothing about James Bigglesworth's life and experiences from the end of the First World War to the start of the events described in The Cruise of the Condor, published in 1933. It is a tantalising gap which this story tries to fill.
1. Chapter 1: Commitment

The dying sun lit up the seeding heads of the long grasses edging the aerodrome of 266 Squadron at Maranique; a perfect summer evening to complete a perfect summer day. But not for the forlorn figure sitting motionless, staring eastwards into the darkening sky. He had been sitting there for hours, ever since he realised that his cousin and closest friend would have long since run out of fuel; waiting for… he didn't really know what he was waiting for, but he couldn't bring himself to go back into the Mess, to listen to all the well-meant reassuring remarks - all the good reasons why Algy might still come back in one piece.

Darkness fell. A late bird flying homeward uttered a plaintive cry; some aircrew, a few stragglers, packed up their tools and closed the hanger doors for the night. Still the figure sat on, motionless, staring into the darkness, unseeing.

Biggles had gone over every possible reason for Algy's non-return in his mind; his fertile imagination dwelt endlessly upon the likely, the possible, and the just plain unrealistic. He had phoned every squadron within flying reach, and bombarded Wat Tyler with requests for information about crashes, on both sides of the lines. Nobody it appeared had seen anything, heard anything, knew anything…

It was the uncertainty that was slowly but surely reducing him to a state of near desperation. Had it not been dark, he'd have been in the air looking for Algy. As it was, he'd have to wait, riven with anxiety, till first light. He'd long since smoked the last cigarette in his packet but such was his dismal lethargy he hadn't been able to summon up the effort needed to get any more.

The moon rose. The grasses rustled in a sudden breeze that brought a chill to the warm night. Biggles stirred; he got to his feet wearily and walked slowly towards his quarters. He had to pass Algy's room. The door was ajar and the breeze was banging an unfastened window to and fro, throwing moving shadows across the moonlit interior.

Biggles went in to close the window, then sank down on Algy's bed looking sadly at the usual chaos: clothes strewn around, an unfinished book open and upside down on a chair, a chocolate wrapper, and a bit of propeller Algy had salvaged as a souvenir of a particularly satisfying victory.

Algy wasn't accustomed to tidying up after himself; there had always been somebody to do it for him. But, far from immaculate over personal matters, Algy was immaculate in his care of his Camel, his flying and his shooting - the things that really mattered. He'd throw down his clothes carelessly on the floor but take infinite pains to check that his ammunition was ok, that his guns would not jam.

Even before Algy had apparently disappeared into thin air, Biggles nerves were in a more than usually frayed state. The strain of acting as a spy behind enemy lines in Palestine had left him tired and fed up, and had stripped away much of his normal optimism and ebullience. Fear of the clever intelligence agent Erich von Stalhein, fright and guilt that his gunner had shot down and killed Algy, resentment at the way he had been manoeuvered into taking the job and how he'd been used on it subsequently, all combined to leave him weary of war, the deception and the killing, to an extent that he had never felt before.

Algy kept him sane; Algy could make him laugh; Algy flew with a song on his lips and a smile on his face; always there at his wing tip; reliable, his rock. But Algy hadn't come back - just an ordinary patrol like hundreds he'd done before, but he hadn't come back. Biggles was overcome with misery and lay down on Algy's bed, burying his face in the pillow, trying to stop the tears threatening to overwhelm him. Exhausted by worry and fear for the person who meant most to him in the whole world, he fell asleep.

A hand on his shoulder woke him. Biggles knew he must be dreaming as candlelight illuminated the face he thought he'd never see again.

"What are you doing on my bed?" queried a surprised Algy. "Did you drink too much and get lost?" he grinned.

Biggles sat up in confusion, still not quite awake, disbelief mixed with relief. "I thought you were dead." Then emotion overwhelmed him and he clung to Algy's hand as if he never wanted to let him go.

"You silly old thing," murmured Algy, "as if I'd leave you to cope on your own."

Never had they been so close. Cousins and friends yes, always looking out for each other, but always a step away from anything more. The dim candlelight reflected two pairs of eyes dark with emotion beyond anything either of them had admitted to before. Such a brief moment, but a line had been crossed, a silent commitment made and accepted.

The next day, Algy regaled all in the Mess with full details of his miraculous escape; how he had been involved with a single Albatross but after his final and lethal stream of bullets had ripped the other plane to pieces, he found that in a stiff westerly breeze they had drifted well over the German side of the lines. To add to his concern, the engine of his Camel had coughed, restarted, coughed again, and then stopped altogether. As if the situation had not been bad enough, a group of four Fokkers had dived at him and only a handy bank of cloud had enabled him to get away and seek a safe place to get down.

But fate hadn't quite finished with Algy that day. As he touched down in a rough but safe landing, two of the Fokkers appeared above him, locked together in a deadly embrace aiming straight at his Camel. Algy declared, "To say that I moved fast was the understatement of the century! I just made it across the field before there was an almighty crash and a ball of fire engulfed the two Fokkers and my Camel."

To Algy's relief, the German soldiers rushing to the spot were too interested in the burning wreckage to look for him, even if they realised he had escaped. As he casually remarked, "All I had to do was hoof it back to the lines, wriggle through the mud and find a hole in the barbed wire."

A general shout of laughter and ribald comments expressed the relief of his fellow pilots. But Biggles didn't laugh; his recent feelings were still too raw.


	2. Chapter 2: Consequences

One man in particular noticed the close friendship of the two cousins: Major Mullen the C.O. He was a warm-hearted Irishman who tried his best to look after his pilots. He was fond of his two 'boys' as he called Biggles and Algy. Although Biggles was senior in rank and experience to Algy – he had been out in France much longer because he signed up underage – there was less than a year between them, and they were still the two youngest pilots in the squadron. Mullen worried that they were too close. Not that he thought for one moment that they were doing anything they shouldn't, but he didn't feel it was sensible for them to have such an exclusive relationship and be so dependent upon each other.

Curiously, he found that he was not alone in thinking this. By chance he ran into Colonel Raymond at Wing Headquarters. It was the first time they had talked since Biggles' mission in Palestine.

"Haven't seen you at 266 recently, sir!"

A slight smile spread over the colonel's rather severe face. "No, I've been involved in various matters concerning the latest advances of course, and to be truthful, I felt 266 in general and Bigglesworth in particular deserved a rest from our attentions if possible." The two of them did well in Palestine," he added "but I expect you already know that".

"Yes. But they both found it hard going."

"Ah well, that's true. Lacey was vociferous in his condemnation of the Air Board for sending Bigglesworth to do a job like that. I found myself having to overlook his attitude, close to insubordination at times. It surprised me because I had always thought of him as an easygoing sort of boy, not prone to passion or anger; I always thought of Bigglesworth as the one to go down that road."

He went on, "It was an opportunity to get to know Lacey; he's a good lad: reliable, as straight as they come and very loyal. And he was right. In an ideal world, the last thing you would do is to send a young pilot, with no training in espionage and little knowledge of the language, to act as a double agent behind German lines. Especially against a skilled and well-trained operator like Erich von Stalhein, although we didn't know about him at the time of course.

But war is far from an ideal world and we had to take up the amazing opportunity we were offered. Bigglesworth wasn't happy about it but he saw where his duty lay. He survived, against all the odds, because he's a damned clever fellow, can think fast on his feet and turn a difficult situation to his advantage - priceless skills in that field. And he seems to have the luck of the devil himself! … Not that I didn't realise it had been a strain for him, and Lacey, but that's war."

"They're close to each other," explained Mullen.

Colonel Raymond sighed, "Yes, I realised that."

He thought back to the time Lacey had landed back at Kantara after meeting Bigglesworth at the desert rendezvous. He'd waited as the boy had jumped down from the Camel. "All well, Lacey?"

"Yes, sir, fine. I passed on the messages. Oh, and he said I was to tell you he's running on a hot scent. He said he hoped to be back in 266 by the end of the month, sir."

Raymond remembered how Lacey had suddenly started to tremble with emotion. "What's wrong, my boy?"

It was some time before he was able to get out of him what had happened. He'd seen this Halberstadt, shot it down – a crumpled wreck; he didn't know how anybody had got out alive. Bigglesworth had been in it, some German pilot flying. He hadn't realised till they'd met.

"You said he was over our side" Lacey had almost screamed at him. "What sort of intelligence is that! I could have killed him!"

Raymond hadn't criticised his outspokenness – he recognised reaction to shock; he'd simply taken Lacey aside and sat with him, talking quietly till he'd had calmed down.

"Thinking about everything afterwards …" the colonel tailed off, "I did wonder if really they would be better off in separate squadrons. It doesn't do to be too attached to somebody you are flying with – it's a fine line."

Mullen nodded "I've wondered the same. But it surely can't be long till the end now, and it would break their hearts to be separated, or for one of them to be sent home. Which is what Bigglesworth needs most of all - a chance to relax and forget about war for a while. He's been out here a long time, but he is utterly resistant to any suggestion that he take some leave - regards it as a criticism of his flying."

Colonel Raymond looked at Mullen thoughtfully for a moment "Well, perhaps you could just have a quiet word…"

"Yes, sir, I'll do that."

Biggles walked quickly over to Algy's quarters and knocked on the door. "Come in…" was the cheerful response. He opened the door.

Algy looked up in surprise "Oh, it's you. Why so formal all of a sudden?" He grinned, "You're not usually so polite!"

Biggles made no move to come in but propped himself up against the door frame. "The C.O. sent for me." He fell silent.

"Yes," responded Algy helpfully. "And…?"

"As your Flight Commander, as your elder cousin, supposed to be responsible..."

Algy stared at him. "What's the matter?"

Biggles bit his lip, and looked down at the floor, unable to meet the questioning brown eyes with any sort of equanimity.

"He said, " he muttered, "he said…" Another silence.

"Come on Biggles, out with it, whatever's getting to you. _What_ did he say?"

"He said… we shouldn't be spending so much of our time together, should do more with the other chaps, should go into Amiens with the usual crowd …"

"He said it's not sensible, what would we do if one of us got killed, not a good idea to put all your eggs in one basket… 'everybody needs to relax a bit, why not find a nice girl' he said…"

"Ah. Yes, I see." Algy considered his cousin thoughtfully; Biggles was still staring at the floor. "Don't see _you_ going into Amiens for that sort of a night out. Not your thing really. I'll go - get Mullen off our backs for a while. Anyway," he muttered darkly "where does he think any of us are going to get a decent girl friend – stupid suggestion – there aren't any respectable girls left round here."

"There's another big push coming," he added optimistically, "he soon won't have time to think about who's friends with who."

Although his tone was bright and cheerful, Algy didn't feel that way. He knew Biggles too well; he sensed his unhappiness; he wondered if a suggestion had been made that Biggles had somehow been responsible for leading his younger cousin astray. It wasn't remotely true, thought Algy. Once they had got over their first not-so-happy encounter, they simply got on well; both being enthusiastic about flying, tactics, new ideas; each learning to trust the other whatever the situation.

Inevitably war had taken its toll, members of the flight had come and gone, but Algy had now been flying at Biggles' wing tip for nearly a year and neither could ever imagine flying with anybody else.

He'd hero-worshipped his cousin before coming to 266, but such a superficial emotion had quickly changed to deep affection, and a strong desire to protect Biggles from himself. For it didn't take Algy long to realise that Biggles was not always the confident person the outsider saw. Only in his Camel did he really come into his own, sure of his ability to fly and to fight, loving flying above all else.

He certainly wasn't likely to find himself a nice girl in France, Algy was sure of that.


	3. Chapter 3: Aftermath

A young officer sat in a chair staring into some unseen point in the distance. The room was warm and comfortable, which ought to have been a welcome change after the cold damp German hospital. Acheson Hospital was for officers only and had pleasant views, even in mid-winter, of the trees and grass of Regent's Park. The officer's leg wound was at last responding to treatment and he'd been told he would be free to return to duty within the month.

All in all, he ought to have been grateful to have survived the war, and to have been wounded but not beyond the surgeon's skill and nature's ability to repair. So why – why did Biggles feel so empty, and so incapable of doing anything? Such reactions were common in war; for all pilots, nerves were continuously stretched, flying long, tiring hours in difficult, dangerous conditions, with the assumption of certain death sooner or later. He wasn't the first to have his emotions shredded in war – in love, fear, guilt, regret; nor the only one to be too young for all of that.

But he felt very alone. He struggled to fight past the blurred memories of the nightmare that had filled his mind from the moment he saw the farmhouse go up in flames to the sickening crash as his Camel hit the ground.

He needn't have been quite so alone. Although his last-surviving close relatives, his father and brother, had died in France, there was still his mother's side of the family. His aunt in particular had been anxious to bring him home to Merioneth to convalesce. "_Algernon might get a few days leave_," she had written, " _you'd be pleased to see each other again, I'm sure. He's looking forward to coming back from France. Did you know he had been promoted to Flight Commander? We're very proud of him_." She added kindly "A_nd of you too of course, James dear_."

Biggles had written back, thanking her but declining politely; explaining that he was being well looked after in a comfortable convalescent hospital, and that travelling with crutches was a bit tricky. He didn't feel he could possibly face his aunt or his uncle after what he had so nearly done to their younger son.

Algy was the biggest question exercising his restless, traumatised mind. How did you reconcile caring about somebody with the certainty that all you had ever done was drag him into danger. Then there was Marie. Had she survived? How could he even think of worrying about a beautiful female spy who had used his naivity so effectively for her own ends? To say nothing of letting down those who had been his companions and commanders: 266, Mullen, Raymond…

Biggles received his new posting within 24 hours of being declared medically fit. To his amazement, the promotion to Major and the squadron of new Snipes was still in effect – he had long since assumed that someone else would have taken it over. The pilots were mostly young and new to the service, but he was informed that three experienced pilots would be drafted to his squadron as flight commanders, as and when they arrived back from France.

No more looking back, he determined. He finally accepted that he had to come to grips with reality. He wasn't going to give any thought to the future – that seemed irrelevant. He was going to live in the present, stop thinking and get on with the job. He knew he was lucky to have one.

It was a jarring shock when Algy was posted to his squadron in the spring of 1919.

One year later, Algy sat on his bed, staring morosely at the forms in front of him. What to do – go or stay? The RAF in peacetime had little to offer him, he felt. He had been surprised to find himself promoted, and even more surprised to find himself posted to Biggles' new squadron of Snipes. He thought Biggles was surprised at that too, and possibly not really very pleased. Algy was sure his presence was a continual reminder of things Biggles wanted to forget. Not that there had been any awkwardness or unfriendliness, but just restraint on both sides – an inability to pick up their old friendship.

Biggles was a competent leader; his pilots respected him both for his ability and his fairness. But he wasn't one of them. He just did his job, with cool efficiency.

Algy thought back to Maranique and 266 – Biggles had been pretty relaxed, and even quite sociable in the early days, but by the end of the war he had retreated into a world of his own, using the Mess more to drown his sorrows than to be one of the crowd. Even Mahoney, his oldest friend in France, couldn't get past the high wall Biggles had erected round his feelings. Algy had known _he_ stood no chance – Biggles wasn't going to spoil Algy's life as well as his own.

In the Squadron Office later that day, Biggles was sorting out operations for the coming week. It was something he did conscientiously, making sure all his young pilots received an equal chance, equal experience, checking to ensure nobody was falling behind, that everybody had some help if they needed it. With three experienced flight commanders on the squadron's strength, he had ample resources. But he knew Algy was approaching the end of his term of service; he wondered if he would go or stay.

Part of him wanted Algy to stay, but in his less selfish moments he was sure it wasn't for the best. "Better for Algy to find something different to do with his life. I'm not doing him any good. Probably best for both of us if he doesn't stay."

Algy's mother had been nagging him for months to get out of the RAF "No place for somebody like you, Algernon; all this silly flying nonsense. The war's over now. You have family commitments. You need to settle down and do something more suitable. You are too old to be idling your time away – and all the best girls are being snapped up."

Algy's brother stated his version of the same. "That cousin of yours has been a bad influence on you. You ought to have sown your wild oats by now and be finding yourself a nice wife."

Algy had long since given up arguing with either of them – it was like beating his head against a brick wall, though he was tempted to say "He's your cousin too don't forget."

As for sowing wild oats and settling down – neither of them seemed to have any understanding of what it had been like, what the war did to you, what really mattered. Somebody, his mother perhaps, had pulled strings for his elder brother and kept the heir to the title safely away from any firing line, unlike Biggles' elder brother who had been killed on the Somme just before the end of the war. Biggles might not have been close to Charles but surely it was better to have some family than none. Then Algy thought of his own family and decided maybe not!

Algy had absolutely no intention of returning home meekly and playing the part of dutiful son, helping his brother, settling down with some dreadful female his mother found and approved. He wanted to do something different, but he hadn't a clue what.

He went to pick up his post and then returned to his quarters – only to be confronted again with the forms: "damned forms," he muttered. "Go or stay? I don't know. I don't think I'm helping him; if I was, I'd stay."

His attention was caught by an envelope with a foreign stamp, obviously redirected more than once. "Why, that's Boris' handwriting," he exclaimed, ripping open the envelope.

_"My dear Algy, I hope this finds you well. I hope this finds you! Where are you hiding? Why are you hiding? There's a whole world out here – great scene, great girls, great food, and the tennis starts in three months time. You should be here…"_

Algy stopped wondering; he made a decision; he filled in and signed the forms. Then he sought out his commanding officer to explain. "This peacetime flying's not for me, Biggles. Need to get out and do something else."

Biggles nodded approvingly "Yes, very sensible." He smiled faintly "it's certainly not what we are used to. What are you going to do then?" He paused, "Sorry, didn't mean to be nosey."

"Oh, it's no secret. I'm going out to join Boris in Monte Carlo. Going to play some tennis if I can get my game up to scratch. Then, well, I don't know – see what turns up."

"So in a month's time you'll be enjoying yourself" smiled Biggles. Good luck to you Algy – you'll come and say cheerio before you go?"

"Of course."


	4. Chapter 4: New Start

Intelligence always knew who was doing what. Colonel Raymond had his eye on Biggles, waiting to see if he pulled himself together enough to be useful again.

He hadn't been pleased to see that Algy had been posted to Biggles' squadron. He wanted his new squadron leader to make a fresh start and forget the traumatic end to his war. He wasn't sure who had arranged the posting – certainly Biggles hadn't requested it. Raymond had tried to wangle a squadron for Algy too, but there were too many more-senior pilots needing promotion. So it was with some relief that he noted Algy had decided not to continue in the service.

He waited for a month and then picked up the phone to his aide. "I want you to get in touch with Squadron Leader Bigglesworth for me…"

It was New Year's Eve, 1920. Biggles politely joined in with his pilots for the usual celebrations, toasting the King, toasting the New Year, toasting the future, toasting anything anybody else could think of. At the end of the evening, he alone was still sober – he'd vowed, never again…

Somebody called another toast "To absent friends!" For the first time that evening, Biggles' response was genuine: "To absent friends – Algy" he said softly.

Biggles' first two assignments were both in Germany. Although not yet as proficient in the language as he was to become later, he'd picked up a useful working knowledge behind the German lines at Zabala. He had no difficulty in making himself understood, and even less in understanding what he heard. A visit ostensibly to check on progress in two factories previously engaged in aero-engineering was in fact a cover to pick up certain items of information wanted by Intelligence. All went well and Raymond was delighted.

The second assignment was to attend, as a representative of the RAF, a European conference in Berlin, a gathering of many organisations and a hotbed of political intrigue and exchange of information.

In a secret location, a group of German ex-intelligence officers of the old guard met to consider their strategy for the forthcoming conference. One of the older members, Karl Schäfer, looked down the list of attendees for names he didn't recognise. "Who's this fellow coming from London for the RAF?" he enquired.

Franz Richter was in charge of advance intelligence; he laughed, "No problem – it's that fool boy from the Maranique station who Marie Janis talked into delivering her message."

A man glanced up sharply from the back of the room; lean and hard-faced, he limped forwards to Richter. "Who?" he demanded. "A pilot, name of Bigglesworth" answered Richter, picking out a photograph from his folder "Now a squadron leader, but according to our information, an undercover agent. But unlikely to be much of a threat."

"But Fräulein Janis' mission was aborted by British intelligence" pointed out the previous speaker. "Yes," agreed Richter, "but nothing to do with the boy. We established that he was ignorant of what was going on. Fell for our good lady, well and truly," Richter chuckled.

"Let me see," requested the other speaker. "Who am I looking out for?" Richter passed over the photograph.

"Mein Gott! Liutenant Brunow…" Erich von Stalhein stared at the photograph, his eyes glittering with hate and anger. "You say this man is no threat?" he snarled. "This is the fellow who ruined our foremost Palestine venture; we had it all under control until he turned up. A mere boy, and not even a trained agent," he added bitterly. Von Stalhein said nothing about Marie, who turned away from her chosen profession after the war, who took up nursing, who wanted no more to do with him, whose eyes were dark with sadness and regret.

"You mean this agent will recognise you?" asked Schäfer.

"Undoubtedly" came von Stalhein's quick reply.

"Well we can't have that. The last thing we want is for British Intelligence to know you are still alive. Somebody else will have to go to the conference." Schäfer turned to his secretary, a quiet nondescript individual who nobody usually even remembered was there. "Speak to Fischer," he ordered. Tell him to get gened up for the conference next week."

The nondescript man turned out of the building and walked casually along the street, stopping at a newsstand. "Volkischer Beobachter, bitte". The seller passed over the Nazi paper, accepting the proffered payment without looking at it.

Back in London, Colonel Raymond frowned at the de-coded message in his hand. "How do they get this information?" he muttered in annoyance. "There must be a leak here somewhere. We'll have to send somebody else." He turned to his aide: "Tell Bigglesworth the conference is off" he ordered.

Biggles never did find out why his second assignment was cancelled before it had even begun. He didn't particularly care.

Two years on, Biggles was well settled into his new life. He was now stationed at the prestigious establishment of Cranwell, working with the best of the young pilots, making sure they had a good grounding before they were thrown out into the real world of active service. He had learned the value of meticulous training from his own early days with 266 Squadron, and from his observation of how other commanding officers' methods worked, or didn't. None of the pilots stayed with him for long; once they had reached the required standard of excellence, they were posted on, to wherever they were needed. This too suited Biggles. He wasn't interested in forming long-term friendships.

Intermittently, he would receive a summons from Colonel Raymond, now Assistant Commissioner at Scotland Yard, but still involved in intelligence work at the Air Ministry. Initially, Biggles found it irksome to have to fit in with the bureaucracy, the Ministry red tape and the tight limitations on how he could operate. But he quickly learned how to bypass all that. He wasn't interested in playing their games – he wanted to do things his way or not at all. That of course was one of the secrets of his success; Colonel Raymond knew this and was happy to overlook Biggles' disregard of protocol as long as he got results.


	5. Chapter 5: Mount Street

Towards the end of 1923, Biggles received a letter from his bank. Generally he did no more than skim these, reply briefly if necessary and then file them. Having inherited the London family house and what remained of the family assets when his brother died, he wasn't short of money and, like many people comfortably off, rarely even thought about it. Having no immediate need of accommodation, he had sold the family property rather than have the bother of looking after it.

However, this letter, from the bank's financial advisor, caused him to pause for thought. In summary, the suggestion was that with rising inflation, he would be wise to buy a house now, before prices rose any further and put property-owning beyond his reach. He took advice and eventually became the owner of a good-sized flat that had the advantage of additional live-in accommodation for a housekeeper or caretaker. The flat was in Mount Street, a highly respectable neighbourhood, and located within easy reach of most of the places Biggles was likely to frequent.

The next question was how to look after it without actually living there. Not only was Biggles stationed about one hundred miles north of London, his intelligence work invariably took him to Europe, and occasionally even further, for days or even weeks at a time.

He decided the answer was to have a housekeeper: somebody sensible who could keep the flat clean, cook on the rare occasions when he was there and generally keep an eye on the place. Never having done such a thing in his life, Biggles had not the faintest idea how to go about finding somebody competent and trustworthy, but an officer acquaintance at Cranwell recommended an agency in London.

The agency office was run by a fierce dragon of a woman, a Miss Smithson, elderly but sharp-eyed and, as she put it, well used to spotting a 'bad egg'. Biggles found that at least for him the client, her bark was worse than her bite and together they framed a suitable advertisement to place in _The Lady_.

Interview day came and five of the six selected applicants turned up and were interviewed. Biggles didn't find one he liked. He just could not imagine leaving his flat in the care of any of them, let alone sharing it. The sixth applicant never turned up and he went back to the new flat feeling depressed and regretting he had ever bought it.

Towards the end of the afternoon, the telephone rang. The disapproving voice of Miss Smithson informed him that the sixth applicant had now turned up, but that the office was shutting in half an hour. Biggles was by now thoroughly fed up with the whole business, but on hearing that the lady in question had travelled all the way from Portsmouth, and had been the unfortunate victim of a serious railway delay, he relented. Miss Smithson seemed vague about what the problem had been – she was more concerned with the office closing time.

Biggles sighed in frustration "Never mind Miss Smithson. Put the lady in a taxi and send her round here."

"You really cannot do that, sir. We _never_ allow an applicant to be interviewed outside the office."

Had she but known it, 'cannot do that' and 'never allow' were two phrases guaranteed to make Biggles do exactly that. "Don't keep this poor lady hanging about any longer. Put her in a taxi and send her here immediately" he commanded in the voice that every young pilot learned to obey without question. Anticipating an argument about costs, he added "I'll pay the driver when he arrives."

Twenty minutes later, a taxi deposited a woman of indeterminate age, but no longer young. She looked exhausted. "Mrs Symes? I'm Major Bigglesworth. Please come in and sit down. Let me make you a cup of tea." Making tea and opening the biscuit tin were two of the few culinary skills that Biggles possessed.

"That would be so kind, sir, but let me do it" she protested "it's not for you to do that sort of thing for me."

"Why ever not?" queried Biggles. "You're the one who has had a rotten day getting here. I won't be long."

With a curious expression on her face, Mrs Symes watched her prospective employer leave the room. He was not what she had expected. Young, serious-looking, obviously thoughtful and no airs about him. She looked around the lounge: little sign of personal belongings and very tidy.

Biggles had to make two journeys with the tea and biscuits. "I'm sorry," he apologised, "there's no tray. In fact, there are a lot of things we'll need," he confessed.

'We?' wondered Mrs Symes. She could see that the Major lacked experience and wondered if he could be taken in too easily. However, she thought probably not; he had a direct gaze and an air of authority despite his uncertain social manner.

During the following half-hour, Biggles learned that Mrs Symes' husband had been killed early on in the war and that, without any formal qualifications, her only choice of occupation was to enter some form of domestic service. Her current position was pleasant enough but the family was moving and she didn't want to be too far away from her elderly mother. She learned that Biggles would seldom be in the flat, but wanted it looking after. She also learned perhaps more than he intended – she was a good judge of character and missed little in the way of fleeting expressions and nuances of conversation. She sensed his genuine sympathy for the loss of her beloved John, and she was sure that he too missed somebody important to him.

Biggles was immensely relieved to find somebody he liked and was instinctively sure he could trust. "Would you like the job? When can you start?" he asked.

"But sir, you haven't seen my references yet!" Mrs Symes reproved him politely. Biggles eyes twinkled "Nor you mine" he pointed out. Mrs Symes didn't know whether to be shocked or to laugh at such a direct approach. "Well, sir, that's fine by me, if you are sure. I can start in one month's time."

Over the next few months they got used to each other. Mrs Symes was kind and unobtrusively conscientious. She was more than happy to help 'her Major' make the flat more of a home – she could see he didn't know where to begin. He trusted her to unpack such belongings as he had kept from the family house, and the little he had brought back from France.

On one occasion, she was unpacking a box, somewhat battered, with a label 'J.C.B. RFC 266, Maranique, France'. She uncovered three framed photographs, the first truly personal possessions she had seen. One was of a family group, obviously taken in some foreign country: a delicate-looking fair-haired lady holding a very tiny baby, a man in a tropical suit looking fondly down at her, and a sulky-looking young boy with dark hair. The likeness was unmistakeable; the lady had to be her employer's mother.

One of the other two was a formal group of officers and other men, with their commanding officer in the centre. Her employer, obviously younger then, was seated cross-legged on the ground next to a similarly youthful boy with disorderly hair and a cheerful smile. The final photograph was of the same cheerful boy and her employer, seated on a curious-looking aeroplane, helmets and goggles dangling from their hands. Both were laughing at something. "He was a pilot!" she exclaimed in surprise. Biggles had never said, had just referred to the 'station' and given her a telephone number for emergencies. "And once, he was happy," she reflected sadly.

She arranged the photographs neatly on the lounge mantelpiece. The next time Biggles came home, he moved the photo of his mother to his bedroom and locked the other two in his desk.


	6. Chapter 6: Unexpected Meeting

Two years passed. Successive intakes of air cadets qualified, got their 'wings', were 'polished' by Biggles and then moved on – mostly to be commissioned officers policing the Empire. Raymond continued to ask Biggles to do intelligence work – he found it difficult not to call on someone who was so much more than just skilled and efficient. By 1925, now 26 years old, Biggles was becoming more confident, and harder. Although not forgotten, he had come to terms with the trauma of 1918, gradually pushing it out of his consciousness. He had grown up.

From time to time, some occasion, some article in the paper, a comment in a conversation, something would remind him of Algy, and he'd wonder how he was. Algy was still playing tennis, that was clear from reports in the paper, and was to be seen occasionally in society photographs, usually accompanied by some suitable lady friend. Biggles had not communicated with the Lacey household since the end of the war. He was committed to his conviction that Algy was better off without him and he had no intention of getting involved with any of the Laceys ever again. But he noticed that Algy hadn't yet married, nor settled down.

In the summer of 1926, Biggles was assigned to an intelligence job in Monte Carlo to investigate the machinations of a group of Nazi sympathisers and trouble-makers, thought to be involved in illegal financial deals, and getting in and out of the area by air. He was given a false identity and gained access to the group with the help of another British agent, Mark Slater.

Biggles' German was by now near perfect and with fair hair, although Mark had said "pity you haven't got blue eyes too", he found it easy enough to pass as a German who had been in America for a number of years. The job ought not to have been difficult but it became apparent to both Mark and Biggles that another organisation was at work, not against the British but against the Nazi group. This was a complication.

Another complication was that the annual tennis tournament was taking place in Monte Carlo, and Algy was there, partnering Boris Zarrill as usual. Not only that, it turned out that Algy was staying at Boris' flat, just a few streets away from the hotel where Mark and Biggles were staying. Biggles worried that they might run into each other and that Algy might inadvertently give him away. He thought of trying to warn Algy, but as a new member of the Nazi group, Biggles was being closely watched. If any of the group knew about Algy's war record, and by chance connected the two of them the results could be disastrous. He hesitated, but in the end did nothing, expecting that he could easily avoid the tennis social set.

It was nearly a week later when he found out about the plot. He was now in a quandary. In air combat in France, they had done their utmost to watch out for each other – Biggles had never knowingly abandoned Algy in the face of danger.

In Palestine in 1918, serving as a double agent behind German lines, faced with what he thought was Algy's Camel attacking the German bomber he was flying, he put his mission at risk to warn Algy. "I got away with it that time," he mused "because the red Very light was a combat manoeuvre signal which the German flyers recognised and I got credit for." "But what on earth am I to do now?" He racked his brain desperately. "If I give them reason to suspect me, bang goes the job, and maybe Mark's safety too since he recommended me."

His problem was how to maintain his undercover identity and yet prevent Boris and probably Algy too from certain death? He wasn't unduly worried about Boris who he had never met, but the strong probability of Algy being with Boris in his flat on the afternoon in question filled him with horror.

He wondered whether he could shake off his shadow, but that in itself might be viewed with suspicion. The only solution he could think of was a desperate one but he could think of no alternative; its success would depend on Algy's co-operation.

On the afternoon of the operation, the first thing he had to do was to find out whether Algy was there or not. Biggles sauntered casually from his hotel to Boris' flat and rang the doorbell. Light footsteps sounded on the stairs and Algy opened the door. Out of the corner of his eye, Biggles saw his shadow melt into the darkness of a doorway.

Algy stared at him, open-mouthed "Biggles, whatever are _you_ doing here? You're the last person I expected to see!"

"Can I come in?"

"Yes of course – come on up. I'm the only one in at present. I'm waiting for a chap from the tennis club because Boris couldn't make it this afternoon."

Biggles followed Algy up the stairs to the living room. "Algy, there's a problem," he started, "I can't explain everything now, but there's a group, up to no good, Nazi-based, and I'm supposed to be part of it – I'm trying to find out exactly what's going on."

Algy blinked at him in amazement "What on earth are you doing _here_ then?"

"That's the problem." Biggles went on urgently "I don't know why yet, but they are out to get Boris, and they are planning to bomb this flat somehow, this afternoon – timed for 3 p.m. I was afraid you'd be here, and you are. I was afraid you'd be killed. You've got to get out before the bomb goes off, and warn Boris if you can."

Algy stared at him unbelievingly "This sounds like the worst sort of cheap thriller. I take it you're not making it up?"

"No!" Biggles was exasperated "Of course not. And the other problem is, I've got to have an excuse for coming here and both of us leaving."

"Why?"

"There's a chap watching me – he'll report back to the group and they'll want to know why I was here and what I was doing; especially if Boris isn't here when the bomb goes up. They are expecting him to be here – it's been arranged that he'll be here."

Algy shook his head "sounds a crazy business to me."

"Yes I can see it looks like that." Biggles looked Algy straight in the face "Algy, there's something you have to do for me".

"Yes, of course. What?"

"Shoot me."

"What! Are you off your rocker?" Algy couldn't believe that he'd heard Biggles correctly.

"Just something slight," Biggles snapped impatiently. I shouldn't have come here, I've been followed – I always am. I'll have blown my cover; I may have endangered a colleague. But there was no way I could stand by and risk you being killed."

He explained, "If you wound me slightly, somewhere not important, then run for it, I should be able to convince them I was on to something, but messed up. I have to be able to continue in the job without suspicion."

Algy blinked, still reeling from shock. A surge of anger went through him: "Don't tell me," he snarled, "one of Raymond's cock-eyed schemes. Biggles smiled faintly. He met Algy's eyes again "Once," he said quietly, " we had a commitment."

Algy stiffened, "Yes," he replied slowly. "Yes, we did, we do, well I still do… But that commitment does not, I repeat, _does not_ extend to me shooting you."

"Would you rather that _they_ did?" Biggles enquired evenly.

"Are you seriously telling me there's no other way?"

"If there were, would I be asking you?"

"So," Algy spoke harshly "which bit of you do you not need? Your head probably," he added sarcastically.

"Algy please, I…" They were interrupted by a loud explosion; the whole house shook and bits of plaster fell off the ceiling. There was a brief silence followed by the crackle of fire.

Outside there was a scream "Mon Dieu, le feu!" In voluble French, the cry was taken up by others.

Biggles and Algy stared at each other, dumbfounded. Biggles moved first – he opened the living room door and dashed to the top of the stairs. The whole of the front ground floor of the house was ablaze and their escape down the stairs was cut off. Biggles backed away and slammed the door shut. There was a crash as something hit the upstairs back window and splintered the glass.

"Algy, Bigglesworth – over here, quick!" They both spun round. A man teetering on the topmost rung of a wooden ladder was knocking out the remaining glass from the window frame.

"Boris! What on earth…?" cried Algy.

"No time to talk, over here, fast."

"You first" Biggles ordered Algy. "Don't waste time arguing," snapped Boris. The ladder was precariously placed and moved frighteningly as the last man down, Biggles, put his foot on the top rung, but it held in place and he reached the ground safely.

Boris thrust the ladder through the back ground-floor window, then before Biggles and Algy's astonished gaze, Boris and another man dragged in two bodies after it. Boris pushed them away "That car over there. Go... Now!"

They obeyed, falling into the back seat of an ancient Citroën as Boris flung a grenade after the ladder, then leapt into the car beside the driver. "Allez!" he screamed and the driver put his foot on the accelerator.

The car sped away down a maze of back streets. Once Boris was sure they were not being followed, he muttered to the driver and the car slowed down to a more reasonable speed, eventually driving up a steep hill and in at a concealed entrance to what was obviously an expensive private residence.

Inside, Biggles faced Boris angrily. "What's the idea? What's going on?"

"I might ask you the same thing," said Boris coldly. "What were you doing in my flat?"

Biggles drew a deep breath. He wondered how much Boris knew, and how much it was safe to tell him. "Look, thanks for getting us out of there but I don't see how you fit into the picture unless…" Biggles broke off, staring "Of course, how stupid of me. You are part of the group acting against the Nazis."

Boris smiled faintly "I am the leader of the group. And you, I believe, are working for British Intelligence."

"Yes."

"So, I repeat, what were you doing in my flat?"

"I'm working undercover in this Nazi outfit. I knew they were going to blow up your flat today. They arranged for you to be there this afternoon to sort out something with the club secretary. He's one of them. But Algy told me you couldn't make it and sent him to explain. The chap from the club never intended to show up. I couldn't let them blow up Algy – I hoped to warn him and I had a plan to persuade them I had just messed it up, but they acted faster than I expected."

Boris looked at him thoughtfully "Is that so? Well, all things considered, you'd better not mention this incident in your final report." He paused and considered. "Actually though, you had no need to worry. We had everything under control – we knew about it. We, er, removed the chap who was shadowing you, and the secretary, and we left them in the flat – as you probably noticed. Nobody in the group will ever know you were there if you get back to your hotel quickly. Anton will drop you off – in fact, you'd better get moving now."

He turned to Algy "Algy, you can stay here, they are not interested in you. You'll be safe." Boris looked sideways at Biggles, then suspiciously at Algy. "How come my tennis partner knows a British intelligence agent?"

"We are cousins," explained Algy "and we were in France together, in the RFC."

"Ah, the pilot friend you talked about! I ought to have remembered the name, it's distinctive enough. Don't worry," Boris looked at Biggles with some amusement "he didn't say anything too dreadful about you!"

Biggles was still wondering about the afternoon's events. He hesitated, "Did you set off that explosion then?"

"Yes. It was a controlled explosion, I assure you. We are used to doing that sort of thing."

Biggles didn't say anything. He was thinking that it hadn't really been that controlled; and suppose Algy had fallen off the ladder. He followed Anton down to the car.

Biggles gave Mark an edited version of the day's events although he had the uncomfortable feeling that Mark realised that there was more to it than he had said. However, it turned out that Mark knew about Boris Zarill. He had been mentioned more than once in connection with an underground group who had meted out punishment to spies and collaborators after the end of the war, so Mark wasn't surprised to hear of his involvement.

Later, Biggles and Boris met again, secretly. Biggles pointed out the danger and stupidity of Boris' group acting separately from the British, and Boris reluctantly agreed they should collaborate. As Biggles said to Algy later "He almost seemed to take it as a personal affront that we were muscling in on what he regarded as his territory."

Having got a working agreement, it was just a question of time before the loose ends were tied up and the group were, as Boris succinctly put it, 'dealt with'. Biggles knew that things hadn't been done in the way that Raymond and his superiors would have liked, but there really had not been a choice and at least there was no longer an immediate threat.


	7. Chapter 7: Reunion

The tennis had long since finished and Biggles assumed that Algy had gone home. He was surprised therefore to find him in the hotel foyer when he checked out.

"I never said thank you."

"For what? You didn't need me – Boris had it all under control."

"So he said," Algy looked sceptical. "Anyway, it's the thought that counts," he grinned. "Are you going back to London now?"

"Yes."

"Fancy a bit of company on the journey?" Algy assumed Biggles was going back by train and ferry.

Biggles hesitated, thinking of his self-imposed isolation, then gave in. "Could give you a lift in my Moth. I might even let you fly it if you promise not to break it."

Algy's eyes sparkled "That sounds more like it!"

"I've got a flat in London now, so you could stop a night before going back to Wales… if you wanted."

"Yes, thanks, I'd like that. Chance to catch up…"

"Mrs Symes, this is my cousin Algernon Lacey. He's stopping for a couple of days on his way home to Merioneth. Is there any chance you could do us both a bit of supper? If it's too short notice though, we can easily eat at the Club," Biggles added hastily.

Algy smiled at Mrs Symes and held out his hand "Algy, please," he begged, "not Algernon".

Mrs Symes realised she was looking at the other boy in the photograph of the aeroplane. Despite now being several years older, he didn't appear to have changed much – somewhat untidy fairish hair, freckles and an engaging smile. A charming young man with impeccable manners she suspected.

"Of course I can do supper for you, Major, as long as you don't mind something simple."

They assured her they didn't, and she departed to pop a pie into the oven, make up beds, and fill hot water bottles.

Algy glared at Biggles "At least you had the decency not to call me an 'Hon'. But honestly, 'Algernon'…!" Biggles grinned – it was going to be a good couple of days.

Mrs Symes was a Quaker and attended the local Meeting every Sunday morning. Normally her employer was up early but on that particular Sunday morning the house was silent. She hesitated, wondering whether she should stay at home to prepare the coffee and toast that was the Major's normal breakfast, but she was sure he wouldn't expect her to miss her regular worship. "Anyway they might both still be asleep when I get back" she decided.

When she got back, to her surprise there was a faint aroma of bacon. Going into her kitchen, she could smell that somebody had been frying bacon, but her kitchen was spotless. Somebody had even been thoughtful enough to open the kitchen window a little.

Algy popped his head round the door. "Good morning, Mrs Symes. I hope you will forgive us for invading your domain, but I do like a proper breakfast and, I'm sorry, we both overslept. Excellent little shop you have round the corner," he added. "Open on a Sunday, _and_ lovely bacon! I think Biggles has put the rest in the larder with the remaining eggs."

"Mr Lacey, sir, you shouldn't have done the washing up as well" she protested.

Algy's eyes danced in merriment "I didn't," he assured her. "I cooked his breakfast for him – I wasn't going to clear up after him as well!"

He started to go, but stopped and popped his head back round the door. "By the way, if you think he needs a proper breakfast, don't ask him what he wants, just put it in front of him…" They smiled at each other conspiratorially – confident and approving.

After the Monte Carlo affair, Algy turned up at the Mount Street flat from time to time but not very frequently, much to Mrs Symes disappointment. She observed that his cheerful outlook on life and an apparent inability to take his cousin seriously was good for her employer. "The Major is so much brighter when Mr Lacey is around," she confided to her mother. "Mr Lacey makes the flat more alive, more a home. He really appreciates good cooking and is always telling me how much he has enjoyed my meals." It wasn't that the Major was unappreciative, she knew that, but just that too often he ate without thinking, reading a book or the paper at the same time.

Algy didn't go back to Monte Carlo the following year. He had been more than a little annoyed that Boris had deceived him over his involvement in the French group. He had a sneaking feeling that he was being unreasonable and that there was no reason why Boris should have taken him into his confidence, but it left him feeling slightly resentful. After his narrow escape, he felt disinclined to run any further risk of being associated with somebody who had been calmly prepared to use him as a pawn in his game. He also agreed with Biggles that Boris' reluctance to collaborate with the British agents had been at best unhelpful, and might have had more serious consequences.

He was still determined to avoid his mother's attempts to match him up with some suitable girl, preferably with enough money "so you can live like a proper gentleman as befits your social status, Algernon," she would lecture him.

Britain in the 1920s and '30s was still a class-ridden society. Breeding, in influential circles, was everything. Algy's mother assumed, correctly, that her younger son's aristocratic lineage was adequate exchange for good financial prospects in some appropriate girl, even if her son didn't have much money of his own other than a small allowance. However, she left out of her calculations what the war had done to her son's outlook on life and attitude to his fellow man. Algy had always been tolerant and never a snob. His experiences as a pilot, living and working with men from many backgrounds, just confirmed his innate tendency not to judge a man – or woman – by accent or upbringing. He regarded his mother's efforts in the marriage market with abhorrence, and envied Biggles his freedom.

Algy's next venture was into sailing. He had done some as a boy with a family friend and absolutely loved it – he had memories of blue sky and sunshine, the joy of speeding through the water, the excitement of big waves and the challenge of persuading a boat powered by wind in its sails to move against that same wind.

When an old friend from school rang him up with a suggestion that he join his crew racing in the Solent during Cowes Week, Algy jumped at the chance. He even persuaded Biggles to come down and watch, although Biggles quickly got bored with watching tiny specks of white, performing what seemed to him incomprehensible manoeuvres in choppy water, to say nothing of having to shiver in a cold wind blowing across the Solent. "August is supposed to be summer," he grumbled to Algy later that day. He didn't stay beyond the first day, not just because watching the racing was cold – Biggles hated the upper class social set with its pretensions and posturing. Algy was used to it and usually oblivious as long as he was doing something he liked during the day.

Unfortunately, Cowes Week was dogged by bad weather that year and Algy's friend had overestimated the potential of both his boat and his crew to finish even in the allotted time. But Algy was not put off. He retained a love of sailing and, even though his first love was flying and that dominated the rest of his life, he seized any yachting opportunity that came his way.


	8. Chapter 8: Partnership Again

It was March 1932. Biggles sat at his desk at Cranwell, smoking the inevitable cigarette, tidying the same pile of paper yet again. He wasn't thinking about what he was doing, just occupying his fingers. The same forms sat on his desk as on Algy's bed all those years ago, and Biggles was asking himself the same question "Go or stay?"

It had been simple enough after the war. He needed something to occupy his mind, and some sort of companionship without commitment. Staying on in the RAF provided both. But he had to admit to himself that the flying at Cranwell no longer satisfied him. What now seemed like endless years of greeting, teaching, 'finishing' pilots had become irksome. He knew he was good at the job and it was certainly worthwhile, but he was bored.

He didn't even particularly look forward to Raymond's summons any longer. Intelligence work was challenging, interesting and had the added piquancy of excitement, but it didn't make up for whatever it was that was missing from his life.

That, of course, was friendship but it took him a long time to admit to himself that he was lonely.

'Go or stay' – that was the question. "What else can I do," he wondered. He had kept in touch, loosely, with some of his old friends from France - just the occasional letter or card. Few of them were still in Britain. At the end of the war, choices were stark for hundreds of demobbed pilots if the RAF didn't want them, or they didn't want to stay. Civil flying jobs were closely competed for, and even if gained, seemed tame by contrast with wartime flying. Many pilots had gone abroad, like 'Wilks' Wilkinson who had gone to Bolivia as pilot-instructor to the country's new air force. Some had put their demobilisation pay into a private venture, often ending in sad failure. Others had opted for poorly paid flying jobs working for various prospecting agencies, where the flying was hazardous and the hours long.

Nothing of this nature appealed to Biggles. Natural curiosity plus a childhood spent largely with his head in a book, usually reading about foreign countries, their history and their exploration had left him with an interest in exploring off the beaten track and learning about new places. But such ventures cost money, and whilst he was comfortably off with the remains of his inheritance and his RAF pay, he knew that his resources wouldn't go far once he left regular employment. From a practical point of view also, exploration was not something to be tackled alone. It never occurred to Biggles to do anything other than fly, and sensible flying to Biggles wasn't a solo venture but required at least a co-pilot and a mechanic for emergencies.

That weekend, for a change, Biggles was at the flat. It was wet and he could find little to do other than read the flying magazines and the papers. By teatime on Saturday afternoon, he had done that, including all the job advertisements. He had seen nothing that remotely interested him.

Just as Mrs Symes was buttering some scones for tea, the doorbell rang. She sighed and put her butter knife to one side. "Now who would that be on such a wet afternoon," she wondered. "Surely not one of those annoying salesmen at this time, and the grocer's boy has been round to the back as usual."

She opened the door. "Hello Mrs Symes" smiled a very wet Algy, dripping across the front doorstep into the hall.

"Dear me," you'd better come in quickly and get that wet coat off," she fussed over her favourite visitor. "You're just in time for tea."

"That's what I hoped," Algy grinned happily, leaving his hat and coat on the stand and waving her graciously up the stairs ahead of him.

"Hello, old boy," he greeted Biggles, throwing open the lounge door without ceremony. It's raining cats and dogs outside."

"I'd noticed," replied Biggles drily. "I expect you want tea," he looked at his cousin knowingly. "You usually manage to arrive at a mealtime."

"Of course. It's a crying shame for Mrs Symes to be wasting her cooking talents on just you."

"So, what are you doing in London this time?"

"Looking for rooms. I have to have a base somewhere and Wales is too far away from everything…"

"Except mountains and sheep," murmured Biggles _sotto voce_.

"… and anyway, I simply cannot stand being at home any longer. A fellow needs room to breathe, without his mother forever arranging parties and dinners with eligible females, and his brother making pointed remarks about 'idle hands'. You have _no idea_…!"

Having heard similar complaints from Algy more than once, Biggles thought he did have some idea. "So, how are you getting on with your search?" he enquired.

Mrs Symes came in with the tea trolley. "You are so lucky to have found her." Algy sighed longingly after she had gone out and shut the door. "I wonder if we could share her."

"Hands off!" was the emphatic response. "Get your own housekeeper."

Algy helped himself to a scone. "Anyway, I haven't found anywhere decent yet, though I'm going to look at some rooms just off Baker Street tomorrow, and they sound hopeful. Do you want to come with me and give them the once-over?"

"Could do, if it's not raining."

"Don't be so feeble. It's the best way to see a place, when it's raining. If you like a place in the rain, you'll like it when it's fine. Anyway, what else have you to do?"

"Nothing much really" admitted Biggles. "Apart from looking through the Sunday papers to see if there are any decent jobs."

Algy stared at him, in disbelief. "Don't tell me you are getting out _at last_."

"Well, thinking about it," was Biggles cautious reply.

"High time too. You really can't spend the rest of your life running little errands for Raymond, and sitting in a job you can do blindfold with one hand tied behind your back – if not two…"

"I would hardly call intelligence work 'little errands' retorted Biggles.

"Not much fun though. You're only young once."

Biggles managed to restrain himself from saying that somebody had rather thoughtlessly started a war when they were young and should have been having fun. He expected that Algy would disapprove of such a remark and accuse him of being negative.

He had to admit that Algy had, with his usual knack, undermined any argument by stating a simple truth. He smiled ruefully at him. "Twelve years ago, you said you needed to get out and do something different – I'm only now beginning to feel the same!"

Algy took a deep breath and spoke quietly but firmly. "James Bigglesworth, you are thirty-two – thirty-three in May. You have been at somebody's beck and call _all_ your life – home, school, RFC, RAF, Raymond… Honestly, believe me, it is time to get out and do what _you_ want to do, not what you think other people want you to do or expect you to do. If you don't do it now, you'll never do it."

"You might be right – you usually are."

The following day was sunny; they both went to look at the rooms off Baker Street. "The landlady seems ok and it's handy enough" Algy admitted. "And clean. Bit small though."

"Not quite what you're used to," Biggles was sympathetic, "but who knows, perhaps you won't be in London so much."

At dinner that evening both cousins were in a reflective mood. When Mrs Symes went in to serve or clear the table, neither said a word other than to say 'thank you' and 'that was very good'. But she sensed the atmosphere was companionable not confrontational.

They sat over their coffee in silence for a while. Then Biggles asked, "What have you thought of doing – for a living, I mean."

"For a living! You mean a job?" Algy looked horrified.

"That's what people usually do to earn their pennies," Biggles suggested, "unless you are thinking of robbing a bank or finding buried treasure," he added with a grin.

Algy looked at Biggles thoughtfully. "That might depend."

"On what?"

Algy didn't reply. "What are _you_ going to do?"

"I don't know. I haven't actually signed on the dotted line yet," Biggles pointed out.

"But you _are_ going to."

Biggles raised his eyebrows "Whose beck and call am I at now, then?"

Algy smiled. "I'm different. You and I, we're a team, in case you've forgotten."

Biggles hadn't forgotten.

Algy added gently, "I know why you stayed; I've always understood. But you need to put the past behind you and move on. You are forever looking backwards instead of forwards. You must stop that, else you'll destroy any chance of enjoying your life."

Biggles didn't respond immediately. He knew Algy was right. He also knew he was as committed to Algy as Algy was to him. But for years he hadn't felt much feeling of hope, let alone happiness. It was with unfamiliar emotions that he met Algy's steady gaze with a cautious smile.

"Okay then, I'll re-phrase my question. What are _we_ going to do for a living?"

"Something will turn up," replied Algy confidently. "You'll think of something – you always do."

Biggles lighted a cigarette and drew deeply on it. He thought for a while, idly gazing at the smoke drifting slowly away from him. "I wonder what Dickpa is doing these days."

"Who on earth is Dickpa?"

"An eccentric uncle of mine."

Algy grinned. "Runs in the family," he teased.

Biggles pulled a face at Algy but otherwise ignored the interruption. "He's an explorer. He goes all over the place to places nobody else goes to. To find out about things," he added vaguely.

"Is he rich as well as eccentric?"

"I never thought about that, but I suppose he must be, quite. Must cost a lot to hire people to carry your baggage and transport you to wherever you are going."

"Maybe we could do it more cheaply," mused Algy.

"He'd never fly!"

"Like to bet?" Algy's eyes gleamed at the challenge.

Biggles wasn't going to take him on – he was all too aware of Algy's ability to charm people and get his own way, often without them even realising it.

"Tell you what," he made up his mind, "I'll sign my forms and get through the red tape, then we'll meet up in a month or so, and …"

"Mind you don't leave Raymond a forwarding address" Algy interrupted him.

Biggles' eyes flashed angrily. "What sort of an idiot do you take me for!" he demanded. Then he grinned: "sorry…"

"I was going to say, when I was so rudely interrupted, that if Dickpa's not lost in the depths of some dark continent, we could run out in my car and see him. It's a fascinating house, full of all sorts of stuff he's collected over the years, and even if he's not planning an expedition, he's wonderful to listen to. He's a mine of stories. You'll like him."


End file.
